Trust Me, I'm a Vet (21 page)

‘Congratulations,’ I say.

Mike nods. ‘I’d better make a move, say goodbye to Eloise. I’ve got to rewrite one of my papers – one of my fellow academics, who hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about, asked for some pretty major changes. You’ve probably seen the latest one – last week, in the
Vet Record
.’

I shake my head, and he looks a little offended.

‘I must catch up with my lift.’ I step past Mike and cross the corridor to the bar while he walks along at my elbow. ‘He’s with Eloise, look.’

‘Are you and him —?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I blurt out quickly, and then wish I’d said, ‘Yes, we’re having a fling with lots of passionate sex.’

‘I’ll see you around then,’ Mike says, tugging at his collar where it’s rubbed a red mark on his neck.

I don’t say anything as he moves away and steps up to the bar.

‘How do you know Mike, the speaker chap?’ Alex says on the way home. ‘Bit of a robot, isn’t he?’

I look out at the road, at the dark shadows of the trees and the hedges pressing in on us, at the star-pricked sky above.

‘I used to work for him. In London.’ I glance towards the silhouette of Alex’s face. Why can’t I admit it? That Mike and I used to be an item? ‘He was my boss.’

‘I should think he was sorry to lose you,’ Alex says.

‘Oh, he had his eye on a suitable replacement way before I left,’ I say, wondering if Alex is paying me a compliment.

‘You must find it pretty quiet here.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘It’s rather hectic.’

We continue chatting until Alex stops the car outside Otter House, its damaged façade hidden by a mask of scaffolding.

‘Well, thanks for the lift. Would you like to come in for coffee?’ I ask, surprised at how much I’m enjoying Alex’s company.

‘Not tonight, Maz.’

‘Is it the way I make it?’ I say lightly.

‘It isn’t that . . . I might sound like a wuss but I’ve been called out three nights in a row, and then there was Tripod last night. I’m completely knackered.’ I notice Alex’s hand moving towards me, before settling on the gear stick between us. ‘Another time?’

‘Another time,’ I murmur, uncertain now whether inviting him in for coffee was the right thing to do.

‘You do understand?’

‘Of course I do,’ I say regretfully. Eloise. Eloise wouldn’t like it and who can blame her? I shouldn’t have asked. ‘Goodnight.’ I open the door and jump out.

‘See you around,’ Alex calls after me.

On my way back inside the house, I hesitate at Reception. There are lights on in the corridor beyond and footsteps coming towards me. It’s Nigel, and from the expression on his face, I’m not sure he’s all that pleased to see me.

‘I’m glad I’ve caught you,’ I say. ‘That cheque – it bounced.’

‘Aha,’ he says, ‘I was going to talk to you about that.’

Still, his relief is almost palpable when we’re interrupted by a call on my mobile from a client who says her fish is drowning and she’s on her way in. A couple of minutes later, I’m in the consulting room with Mrs Finnegan and Nigel looking over my shoulder, watching a goldfish gasping to death in the bottom of a Pyrex casserole dish.

‘There’s a piece of gravel in its mouth,’ Nigel points out.

‘Yes, I have noticed . . .’

‘How are you going to get it out?’ Mrs Finnegan asks.

‘I’m thinking.’ How indeed? My heart races and my skin grows clammy, which is ridiculous because it’s only a fish . . .

‘The children like to give them names,’ says Mrs Finnegan. ‘I think this is Mickey – he has the white mark on his tail.’

Great, the goldfish is no longer anonymous. I picture the young Finnegans anxiously awaiting his safe return. What goes in, though, must come out. I decide to take Mickey to Kennels, parking him on the draining board beside the sink while I find a kidney dish and tweezers. I tip him into the smaller dish, grab him behind the gills, fit the tweezers around the stone and pull it out. It’s all too much for him – when I pour him back into the casserole dish, he sinks to the bottom. It doesn’t look good.

‘I fear that Mickey will be sushi by midnight,’ I say, when Nigel joins me to find out if I need a hand. ‘This cheque —’

‘Ah yes,’ Nigel says, with the slightest tremor of his moustache.

‘Look, I admire your loyalty to Emma and the practice, but you can tell me what’s going on. We’re on the same side.’ I continue watching Mickey’s apparent lack of response to conservative treatment – all right, I confess, that’s a euphemism for doing nothing. ‘I need to know the truth.’

Nigel sighs dramatically and finally relents.

‘I guessed Emma was having some financial difficulties,’ he says, ‘but I didn’t realise how serious they were until I took over the accounts.’

That isn’t like the Emma I know, I think. She’s always been so careful with money. It was me who was the spendthrift.

‘In my opinion, she’s in denial,’ Nigel goes on. ‘She overstretched herself in the beginning – the work to convert Otter House cost far more than she budgeted for, and she bought all the kit from new. I don’t think she compromised on anything, and I can understand why. She always wants the best for her patients. She’s a great vet, but not such a great businesswoman. Talyton Manor Vets haven’t helped the situation of course – the competition was fiercer than Emma expected. You have to admire the Fox-Giffords for their tenacity.’

I look down to see that Mickey is showing surprising tenacity too – he’s started swimming about and nudging the sides of the casserole dish.

‘I’d better reunite Mickey with Mrs Finnegan,’ I say. ‘How much does Emma usually charge for seeing a fish out of hours?’ I’m teasing – I shouldn’t think she’s ever seen a fish out of hours before – it isn’t exactly a common emergency.

However, Nigel is perfectly serious when he answers, ‘That will be a small animal consult, plus the after-midnight out-of-hours supplement, and half an hour of your time.’

‘No way,’ I say. ‘Mrs Finnegan could go out and buy twenty goldfish for that.’

‘But she didn’t,’ says Nigel, ‘because she wants to hang on to this one.’

I can’t do it. Back in Reception, I suggest a donation to an animal charity, and a delighted Mrs Finnegan posts a fiver into the collection box on the desk and carries Mickey out to her car. I know Nigel’s been listening – I heard his sharp intake of breath and his disapproving tut tut tuts.

‘Let me show you something, Maz.’ Nigel reaches over the desk and presses a button on the printer, and out churns several sheets of figures. Numbers? I can feel my eyes glazing over already. Nigel highlights some of them with a neon yellow marker from his pocket. ‘I expected a temporary decrease in turnover when you started here – clients don’t like change – but this is excessive. Free credit, free consults . . . Your generosity is almost as reckless as your spending. For example, did you really need to buy new clippers when sending the blades off to be sharpened would have sufficed?’ I don’t try to defend myself as he goes on, ‘And then there’s Cheryl. Izzy told me,’ he adds quietly.

I don’t blame Izzy. It’s in the nature of small businesses that everyone knows everyone else’s business.

‘It takes years to build a reputation, and minutes to shatter it,’ Nigel says. ‘If takings haven’t gone up this month, I’m not going to be able to pay everyone’s wages . . .’

‘OK, OK.’ I need to think, but my head aches. ‘How bad is it? What’s the bottom line?’

‘Another three, four months and the business goes bankrupt,’ Nigel says. ‘Otter House will be no more.’

Chapter Eleven

Dark Horse

I don’t sleep. Like the tails on a Rat King, my thoughts become tangled and tied in knots. I pull the duvet up around my ears, force my eyes closed and start counting sheep. Dorset Horn or Texel? I settle on curly-coated Devon and Cornwall Longwools, but it doesn’t work.

How am I going to turn Otter House’s fortunes around? Is it possible to set the practice’s finances back on track before Emma returns? I know it isn’t my fault they were already in a mess, but I certainly haven’t helped.

I make plans, the first of which is to pay Cheryl a visit to persuade her to keep quiet about Blueboy’s haircut, the second is to offer to Nigel not to take any wages myself until things pick up. Should I call Emma? I decide against it. What purpose would it serve? Better to give things a little more time to see if they improve – they certainly can’t get much worse than they are now.

In the morning I head downstairs, toast in one hand, phone in the other. I have one text message.

Maz – wd like to take u up on that coffee sometime. Can I drop by later? Alex

It takes me a while to compose a suitable response. Is this just a friendly gesture on Alex’s part, or is it something more?

I know I said I’d never go out with anyone again, but I’m beginning to waver. Alex isn’t as bad as everyone makes out, and
if
he ever did turn out to be interested in me and
if
Eloise wasn’t on the scene, then who knows? I suppress a ridiculous pang of regret. The idea of any romance between me and Alex Fox-Gifford is beyond the realms of fantasy.

Hi Alex – you’re welcome any time. Maz

I press ‘Send’ just as I push through the door into Reception.

Turning my attention back to the practice, I work all morning. It’s slow but steady, and I make sure everyone pays at the time of consultation, and charge for every bandage and every millilitre of antibiotic I use. When I’ve finished, I brace myself to visit Cheryl. That way, I can start putting everything right – for Emma and Otter House.

When I reach the Copper Kettle I pause outside, taking a moment to collect myself. There are several posters stuck to the window, partly obscured by runnels of condensation. On closer inspection I realise that they’re all the same, a full frontal view of a cat, two hands holding it up by its chest so that its back legs dangle off the ground. Its eyes are wide, the pupils huge and black. Its tongue sticks out and its hair sticks up as if it’s been plugged into the mains.

‘The Otter House Vets Did This To Me’ reads the jagged script at the bottom of each poster. ‘For further information, apply within.’

It isn’t some antivivisection propaganda – it’s Blueboy, and my feelings of contrition are replaced by a wave of anger and hurt that Cheryl could even imagine that I’d deliberately harm an animal. I spend my life trying to relieve suffering, not inflict it. I take a deep breath, reach out for the door handle with trembling fingers and throw the door open with such force that I send the bell jangling to the floor. Inside, a wall of humidity hits me in the face and an ominous hush assaults my ears. When a spoon clatters to the floor, one of the women at the table closest to me, hisses, ‘Shh!’

Cheryl stops cutting a sleekly iced cake.

‘What do you think you’re doing, darkening my door?’

I came in a spirit of truce, but can see that it’s no use. It’s clear Cheryl’s in no mood for compromise.

‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’ I ask, trying to take control of the situation, but this isn’t my consulting room. Cheryl’s on home territory, and like a furious wildcat, she’s on guard.

‘I’m not sure I have anything to say to you – unless you’re willing to offer us compensation.’

‘I’m willing to do that,’ I say, feeling for the chequebook in my bag, ‘but it has to be on condition that you take those posters down.’ It crosses my mind to tear them down myself, but I have a feeling I might get lynched by a gang of women with shopping trolleys and walking sticks.

‘I’m not doing any such thing.’ Cheryl bares her teeth in a mocking smile. ‘The posters stay. How else are we supposed to protect the innocent animals of Talyton?’

A knife taps against a plate and someone murmurs, ‘Hear, hear,’ at which I retreat to Otter House, where the building is still masked by scaffolding and the pavement cut off by railings and tape.

It’s a mess, and I have a feeling we’ll be waiting for a builder for some time – the insurance company says they’ll pay for one, but they’re all tied up on the new development on the edge of town.

Nothing ever happens in a hurry in Talyton St George.

Lynsey Pitt waddles in half an hour late for the urgent appointment Frances made for her at the end of the morning, her bump swathed in a floral cotton that matches her sunhat. She’s accompanied by – I do a quick headcount – just three of her boys, two of whom are restrained in the double buggy. Cadbury follows on the end of a long lead, his head down and tail between his legs.

‘As you can see, he isn’t his normal self,’ Lynsey says. ‘We’re really worried about him. I could do without this right now, Maz.’ She takes a deep breath and strokes her belly. ‘I can’t wait till I’ve popped this one out. I’m shattered.’

‘When’s it due?’ I ask, helping the oldest boy – Sam, if I remember rightly – lift Cadbury onto the table.

‘Yesterday.’

‘Now you’ve made me nervous.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning to have this one anywhere but in the hospital. None of those six-hour stays for me. I’m having five days away from home, a holiday from the rest of my little tearaways.’